


Camlann

by HakoX2



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Cardverse, Heavy Angst, King!England, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22571236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HakoX2/pseuds/HakoX2
Summary: The Royal Timepiece governs the Spade Kingdom by determining how long Kings rule, as well as who the next heir will be. When the hands strike 12, the old King dies, and resumes ticking when worn around the neck of a suitable successor. How much time it takes for the clock to complete another 12 hour cycle is determined by fate itself.The Timepiece has favoured Arthur Kirkland for thousands of years. Alfred F. Jones, his adoptive brother, feels uneasy at being passed the torch; modern technology has confirmed that the Timepiece is guaranteed to be activated by Alfred's magical imprint.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), America/Russia (Hetalia), England/Female France (Hetalia), England/Russia (Hetalia)
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

Alfred noticed that often, Arthur would check that pocket watch of his three or four times at once. Certainly, his big brother had developed a tendency to forget over the years. Or maybe he just didn't want to believe the time it told; Wang once said that stubbornness was an incurable symptom of age. The walls would've been nothing short of a child's collage, if not for the prestige of the items displayed in a meticulous, frustrated manner. The young man passed rows of dark blue banners, swords askew on their bronze stands, teak mantelpieces with glistening antiques whose purpose was unknown to even the castle's oldest residents. 

He squinted. There he was again, the King whose tastes were surely not to be questioned. A dignified blonde man was streaked in the scarce streams of white and blue light filtering in through the stained glass windows. An anxiety unfitting of his youthful visage had wracked his entire body. The thick, floor length navy cape, padded with white fur, did little to conceal it. Even from afar his younger brother had noticed his older brother's trembling hands; the bright sheen of the device's golden case was burning through his gloves. 

"Yo, Arthur!". Alfred's jovial, somewhat mischievous voice boomed through the hallway. It seemed to flick a switch within the King, who immediately relaxed his shoulders and composed himself. "You doing alright there?". 

"Alfred?". Arthur's simple blue coat billowed in the draft coming in from the windowsill. That deep navy colour was in itself the symbol of the royal Spade house; it was only reserved for its ruler, their family and advisers. "Whatever are you doing here?". 

"You know, that coat makes you look kinda old.". Alfred raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Why don't you wear something else once in a while?". 

"And how many times have you told me that already?". Arthur gave a defeated sigh. 

“You know,”.The King chuckled and turned back to the window, fixing his bright green eyes on a far point in the horizon. “Pretending that joke hadn't gone stale years ago takes quite a bit of work. I'm impressed, actually.". 

"But I guess it does suit you after all.". Alfred mused as he ignored him. Twenty years was enough for him to be impervious to the King’s sarcasm. "Being an old, old man.". 

"Oh, shut up.". 

A void of silence pervaded their conversation. It wasn't easy to force a confession out of his older brother; whatever that ailed the King of Spades would be kept in that thick blonde head of his until the end of time.

"It never gets easier, does it?". He began. This was a game of chess with pieces made from difficult and easily misunderstood words. For the brother of a King, Alfred was terrible at chess, especially this kind. "Three thousand years.". 

Arthur said nothing at first. He flicked open the case of the spade-shaped pocket watch, brushing his thumb against its crystal glass covering. Against the pristine white face that read two minutes to twelve.

"My, it's a bit hard to put into words.". His gaze failed to meet Alfred's nervous expression - wracked with fear that he had pushed him too hard this time. 

"When the day you've opened your eyes, built your first city, and met your little brother seems just like yesterday…". He took a weary breath. It weighed more than the gallant crown atop his head, and the cityscape resting on his shoulders.

"I don't know. It's hard to imagine where tomorrow is.". 

Alfred shrugged. "Wherever that is, that shiny thing you've been carrying around all day is supposed to know. Right?".

The only way his plan would work was if he kept things casual; Arthur didn't need any more convoluted demands after centuries of being harassed by them.

"Hmm, somewhat.". Arthur's tone was a mix of amusement and displeasure. "But I mean, the Royal Timepiece isn't just a 'shiny thing', being our national treasure and all. I believe I've told you this many times already.". 

Alfred scratched the back of his head, feigning a meek laugh that both of them knew was uncanny and out of place. The atmosphere between the two brothers began to freeze over, eroding the King's half smile and wiping it off the other's completely.

"If Wang cracked the Timepiece, and we know how it works now, surely we can - ".

"No.". Arthur thundered. The resolve in his eyes intensified - so did the tinge of guilt that they were meant to mask from his younger brother. "I'm not having this conversation again.".

That was it for Alfred. The iron heel of his boot shook the ground as he tightened his fists. 

"Dude, you can't just let a piece of junk decide when you're gonna die!".

"National treasure." Arthur seethed underneath his breath. He took a stride just wide enough for his brother to be within range of a dagger hidden deep beneath his cloak, before realising what he was doing and taking a step back.

"Alfred, our people need this!". He exclaimed. "And I'm the bloody King, dammit - If they do, then I do too!". 

His aggression was met by a series of loud gasps. The chambermaids. A group of young ladies in frilly blue dresses trembled behind them, their hands poised near the bell that would alert the guards of another fight. Out of embarrassment, the King release the tension building up in his shoulders from a battle stance. However, it was clear to Alfred that he was far from admitting defeat.

"They need you,". Arthur stared deep into the blue of his eyes, a blue that matched the sky he held up for three thousand years.

"Alfred. I need you.". 

His younger brother lacked a response to that. Neither did he want to trouble the palace's residents any longer. He shifted his gaze to a nearby banner that he knew he wasn't ready to carry. Not into diplomacy, not into battle; not even the streets of his own home. 

"So stop looking for ways to 'save' me.". Arthur said as calmly as he could. "To stop the Timepiece from taking my life.". He took a few steps forward, leaving Alfred standing in a pool of soft, pink light from the now setting sun.

"Sure, Wang's a genius. But to use that for good, not to mention our wealth and cavalry once you take charge, you need to stop thinking about yourself.". Alfred tightened his grip on the window's black iron grille. His brother didn't look back, not even once, only leaving behind a few words as he left to his chambers.

"After all, the Clubs are ready to eat us alive.".


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred had only met the King of Clubs a few times in his life. He was too young to remember most of the times the feared Ivan Braginsky visited the Court of Spades. Other times, it was just forgettable like all of the summits he dozed through. Arthur had always told him to pay attention ever since the Spade house emblem on the back of his hand was analysed in the Jack of Spades’s laboratory, revealing him to be the next successor. And from whatever visual note taking he did in between cranberry tarts, the green-clad king's vicious hunger had grown more apparent over the years, and so did his own.

Bad blood had boiled between the Spade and Club Kingdoms for as long as anyone could remember. And yet neither of their rulers could name the exact reason why as they waved to their anxious and ambivalent onlookers. As far as Alfred could tell, it didn't matter - if history itself was enough of a grounds to reforge old ties, it could also break them.

His face slid off his palm. The largely-built man caught himself before his chin hit the bronze railing of the balcony, and looked over the edge of the gallery.

The monotonous discussion in the Royal Spade Court was accompanied by a distant violin. He leaned cautiously over the railing. The rich blue draped hanging from the ceiling barely revealed a wooden stage, dominated by a tall and stern brunette - Roderich Edelstein, the Jack of Clubs. Piercing wisps of green light emerged as he played, winding themselves together to create audio waves that encircled his body. A recording was now in session.

"Ah, yes - we were talking about the North, weren't we?". A single voice had caused the entire court to freeze over. It had a piercing sweetness wielded by a young pale-haired man, clad in the splendid green of the country he ruled. Alfred shivered. As always, he was expecting a reply just as mellow and pleasant as he was to hear. 

To the guests’ displeasure, Alfred almost threw himself over the gallery to get a better look of his kingdom’s esteemed guest. 

"Shall we begin negotiations, then?". The King of Clubs towered over the small blue podium. His shadow cleaved the room into two halves, looming over the tables, the chairs and the people unfortunate enough to be sitting in them.   
"Arthur Kirkland, Once and Future King of Spades.". 

His contender sat tall upon his throne. Its pure silver frame ingrained itself into the wall, sprouting vines inlaid with sapphires that weaved into the proud Spade crest that oversaw the proceedings. The embodiment of that crest was a doll that had been played with too well. Arthur was stone-faced and rigid, and even that was shrouded by dazzling finery and a grand red ceremonial cloak. His hands were weighted down to his lap by gold rings bearing various lacquered coats of arms. At this point, it was easier for him not to move them.

"Ivan Braginsky. King of Clubs.”. Out of necessity, his greeting lacked expression. Ivan simply smiled and bowed. 

“The Kingdom of Spades is always open for negotiation regarding the status of unclaimed land in the Northeast.”. He paused. Alfred held his breath. “On the condition that our understanding of the word ‘negotiation’ is the same.”. 

The two heavily-armoured knights on each side of King Ivan raised their steam-powered muskets. The gallery was bursting with gasps, jeers and rampant whispers. The knights of the Spade kingdom responded likewise, encircling the entire court with a wall of raised spears and shields.

The musician's careful eyes darted from side to side. He hastened a bow and calmly took his leave - in the presence of his King, such occurrences were natural. At this point, Alfred was thrown back and forth by a madhouse of intrigued, shocked, disgusted and fearful citizens who had barely scrambled to the exit. 

“Ah, I see! So you are not beating around the bush either.”. Ivan exclaimed almost too joyfully, and raised his hand. Arthur watched as they lowered their rifles and marched to their previous positions; his army remained poised to kill.

“I may not look like it, and neither do you, must I admit. But age really do has a tendency to get the best of us.”. He said nonchalantly. His violet eyes wandered aimlessly around the Royal Spade Court, revelling in the spectacle of dread and suspense. 

"We live the same curse.". He paced in front of the podium, unsettling his own knights. "We have lived the same curse for three thousand years, but what have we lived for? No doubt, that is our land and our people. And as Kings, it is our duty to safeguard their future.".

"However we achieve that at this point, this 'negotiation' you speak of, matters not.". Ivan spread out his arms in an open, heartfelt challenge towards the King of Spades. "What really matters is: how long do we have left?". 

The railing of the gallery buckled slightly; Alfred was just about to crush it with his bare hands. The Spade sigil on the back of his right hand, his Magical Imprint, glowed bright blue with rage and indignation. It was all directed solely towards the King of Clubs. It surged through his arms, shoulders, legs - until Arthur shot him a purposeful glance from the court below him.

The pale-haired man scanned the other's elaborate clothing, catching a bright gold glint underneath his robes. He proceeded to pull up his left sleeve.

"Ah, my watch seems to be broken.". Ivan pouted. "And the clock at the end of the court is too far away…".

"Hey, Arthur. You have a watch on hand, don't you?". He tilted his head as a child would. 

"Tell me, what time is it?".

Arthur's lips quivered, barely forming a scowl.

"The Spade Court adjourns this meeting.".


	3. Chapter 3

On the way to his guest room, Ivan stopped by the only window in the Royal Spade Castle with a view of his kingdom. 

The Kingdom of Clubs drifted across the farthest plains, though never as a whole city. Concrete buildings with marble and glass finishes pierced through the clouds from the centre of the metropolis. The remains of brittle stone walls hovered around the outskirts, uneaten crumbs of shortbread scattered over a child's plate. 

The question he posed to the King earlier that day, he repeated to himself as the hours passed slowly through the night. For how long would progress remain sufficient? His entire kingdom was always cloaked in blinding flashes of eerie green light from operating machinery. Whatever it was that they were building, what he had been building towards for three thousand years, would take twice as long to stand over what Arthur Kirkland did in little more than half the time. 

Ivan hopped off the windowsill and began the long walk to his quarters. Petty rhetoric did little else than tuck his tail between his legs. It was too hard to kick, though, mostly because doing so would’ve taken the fun out of meeting with his old adversary. The King of Clubs bounded along the hallways with a dangerous grin, swinging his jeweled gold scepter from side to side without a care for anyone who would notice. 

“King Braginsky?”. 

Abruptly, Ivan turned around. A man whom he would have mistaken for Arthur if not for his politeness and determined blue eyes, stood squarely in front of him. A burning wisp of light, the same colour as those eyes, illuminated the cluttered brick walls with a gentle glow from underneath his glove. 

Ivan simply laughed. He had to admit, the sheer admiration of an assailant was refreshing once in a while. And with that, someone with a Royal Authority. A nephew of the King’s? A distant cousin? It didn’t really matter. In diplomacy, the one defeated was always the one who started the fight to begin with.

He decided to activate his own - the energy from his own noble sigil burst from his right sleeve and overwhelmed his scepter with green light. Deftly, he maneuvered his fingers around the hidden gauges set on the handle. As the blood red crystal atop the royal artifact shone, the clouds hovering above the castle gathered in front of Alfred. He ducked a split second before he would’ve been incinerated with the banners and reduced to sludge like anything remotely made of metal. 

A wall of crackling white light had snaked slowly across the room, burning everything it touched all the way to the end of the hallway. 

"I was going to give you five seconds to run, but I'll double that since you've touched me with your courage.". The King of Clubs mused. He was glowing in more ways than one. "Actually, since you've managed to dodge… I'll have to give you a penalty of nine seconds. Sorry!".

"Wait, wait, wait!". Alfred held his hands up. The glowing light from his hands faded. The king reluctantly followed, and the hallway grew dark again. "I can't really see that well at night. I just needed some light, I swear!".

"Hm?". The King tilted his head. As if he hadn't just tried to turn someone to dust with lightning, he was overcome with innocent delight. "I see. In fact, that's quite a novel idea - I should try it sometime, too.". 

Alfred grimaced.

"With all due respect, please don't.".

As he staggered back onto his feet he tripped over a fallen armour display, crashing back onto the ground. 

The King activated his scepter. "Better?".

Alfred picked up a pair of metal gauntlets from the ground, wondering why it had to be there at that specific moment.

"Yeah, thanks.". He sighed. 

"What's your name?".

"Alfred.". The blonde dusted the soot off of his coat. "Alfred F. Jones. In other words, King Arthur's brother.". 

Sharp-eyed and astonished, Ivan opened his mouth but couldn't find words. The other was equally at a loss, wondering if it was something on his face; after all, his was not that of a worthy heir to a flourishing, immense kingdom. 

The corners of Ivan's pale lips twisted into an incredulous smile. "Ahh, so that's how it is!". His laughter erupted through the hallway the same way his lightning did. 

"Younger brother, younger brother.". He scoffed. "Adoptive younger brother born and crowned with the snap of his fingers - Arthur really has to put more effort into this.". 

Alfred gritted his teeth. "Hey, listen. You can say all you want, but no one knows how unfit of an heir I am more than myself.".

"In that case, what business do you have with me?". 

"I don't deserve this kingdom.". The blonde gazed out into the window, his voice dropping beneath the gentle breeze that tousled his hair.   
"Someone like me doesn't have a right to carry on the work of a great King like Arthur.".

He exhaled, and faced the King of Clubs again. "I need your help to keep him alive.".

Ivan was in pain. The great King’s hands dug themselves into his stomach; for his immense status and power, he was unable to save himself from his own amusement. 

"Hmm, keep Arthur alive!? It really is one thing after another with you Spades!". He said with a sardonic grin. "Little Alfred - certainly, you are no heir. The Timepieces governing our kingdoms can be taken apart, but not altered. Most of all, I know that not many in your Kingdom have an eye for politics, but to think that I would even consider helping that old miser - “.

"Hey, watch it.". Alfred warned. Ivan forgave his demeanour out of a keen interest in his words, the bizarre ideas shaping the next half-baked leader his enemy kingdom. "What I mean is, I know you both hate each other. That's fine, since no one can change thousands of years of history.".

"But as of now,", Alfred asserted to both himself and Ivan. "I am the heir. Even if no one else thinks I should be, the Timepiece still does.".

"And your point is?". 

"If you leave King Arthur to die, I will cut off all trade with the Kingdom of Clubs.". 

Ivan was still smiling. "Ah, how terrifying. And how do you intend to survive after that?". He scooped a trail of crumbs falling from Alfred's coat pocket with his finger and contemplated them. "Feed them cranberry tarts instead of bread?". 

Without shame, the blonde took out a paper bag filled with cranberry tarts from his pocket. Leaning against the window, he popped a bite-sized piece into his mouth, looking the King in the eye as he did so.

"The Diamonds have recovered well from their civil war. Alchemy is their specialty - we'll work from there.". He smirked. "Being the Kingdom of Wealth, they can turn cranberry tarts into gold, and gold into cranberry tarts. When the Kingdom of Luck chances upon an invention that can do the same, please let me know.". 

Alfred could just barely make out a closed fist, tense knuckles poking into the fur-lined layers of Ivan's coat. Despite that, the King was far from threatened. It could've been a facade he and Arthur had learnt to master in dealings like these. And yet, it almost seemed as if he was thoroughly bored with the whole thing. 

Tapping his boot on the stone floor, eyes bouncing across the narrow corridor. Alfred knew he could say more, much much more to condemn and ridicule the heir of his fellow superpower. It was just a question of the right place and time. 

"Well, I guess you win.". Ivan chirped. 

"Wait, what?". 

"He might be the most tiring man on the continent I've ever dealt with, but I would rather go for tiring than, say…". Ivan deliberately scratched his chin. "Someone who uses their city-destroying Authority as a flashlight.". 

"Yep, that's me all right.". 

"I fear for you and this Kingdom. I really do.". 

At that moment, Alfred didn't care if the King of Clubs was up to something. The heir didn't need a near death experience to drive it in. It went without saying as soon as he entered the court, armed with dangerous banter and deadly, advanced rifles; all of which were his own design. But so was Arthur's fear and vulnerability, carefully nurtured by old feuds that shook him within the fortified walls of his own Kingdom. 

He hated it, seeing his brother cornered like this. What mattered to him now, though, was that someone could corner him. Someone could make King Arthur, headstrong and impartial ruler of the Spade Kingdom, storm out of a royal meeting in an unspoken rage. Because in the face of an enemy, one would always put themselves first. 

Ivan discreetly removed a small, black object from his pockets. A strip of light on the side glowed light green with the King's touch, unlocking the port on the front end to be plugged into one of the Club Kingdom's computers. 

Alfred reached out for the flash drive and concealed it tightly in his right hand. Ivan took a few steps back from Alfred to observe the fragile bravery in the way he looked at the device. It was Pandora's box, the way it brought out as much hope in him as it did doubt. That doubt was for the King of Clubs, but with the way it coursed through the slight tremor in his hands it wasn't really directed at anyone but himself.

"But in the end, I represent the Kingdom of Luck.". Ivan slowly clasped his hands. "We discover the undiscovered and create something from nothing. So, you could say that it is my born duty to find a solution to any problem - even this one.". 

Alfred took a last look at the melted ornaments and singed carpet. At the King of Clubs, now completely engulfed by the licks of shadow across the hallway. 

"Long live your King, Little Alfred. Long live your King.". 

Those words too, faded back into where they came from. Alfred's eyes fixed themselves on the corner the King turned for a good minute or two, as if he would bother coming back to torment him. He didn't feel like going to sleep, just so that he could get the last word in if Ivan Braginsky really did return.

The blonde knew it was an obvious and pointless decision right off the bat, but the last fifteen or so minutes of his life gave him a burning indignation that wouldn't allow him to sleep for days. To keep himself awake, he traced the Imprint - the Golden Ticket on the back of his hand - with a finger. Elegant blue tendrils spun themselves into sharp, triangular fractals within the Spade. This unique pattern was something all Nobles alongside the King desired to have been born with. It was a key to power. To riches. A key to all sorts of unspeakable things as King.

After a good while, he succumbed. The heir of the King of Spades squeezed his eyes shut as if to make sure they would never open again. Because as they closed, he was on his first horse ride with Arthur through the castle orchards. His little hands scrunched up the fabric of Big Brother's coat, dreading the inevitable fall. But he didn't - they flew, past acres of fruit trees brightly painted in sunlight, past years of watching them grow from the castle window. There, in the dining room, his stomach braved another burnt lunch for the sake of dessert. He could barely make out the details of each individual tree, what shape they were or what fruit they bore, just like the pictures in Peter Rabbit Arthur skipped over by accident when he was tired. At times he'd take control and flip to the right part, instead of admitting that he was just happy being read to. And yet, he had a feeling Arthur knew that all along, because he never felt mad at him for doing so.

His eyes were too heavy to open. He had gone blind from the warm, intense light filtering in from between the leaves, obscuring childhood and adulthood alike. He slid down with his back against the wall, releasing the tension in his shoulders and sliding the flash drive into the pocket without the crumbs.

For just two minutes, he told himself.


	4. Chapter 4

Entering the laboratory in the dark hours of the morning was an extreme sport. Alfred nearly broke his back trying to weave his body through labyrinthine arrays of partly corroded steel tables, cluttered with flasks that bubbled away dangerously with whatever otherworldly elixirs Wang had been known to create in his spare time. Sickly, oily, dry and wet, they hissed at the intruder with every click of the motion sensors installed in the corners of the former dining hall, of which Alfred barely had a crawlspace’s worth of room to navigate.

Ever since the land dispute, the Kingdom of Spades had been slow in importing Club technology. Home computers were only for the exceedingly rich as prized displays, never to be used outside of house visits and social affairs. As the Jack, Wang was one of the rare few who actually needed them for his research - and even then, he could only have one model despite wielding royal authority. 

Streams of digitised symbols swirled around the furthest end of the room in a bright green hologram. The screen brimmed with white light. Alfred swerved to the side, dodging the last of the thin blue lasers that had already torn a corner off of his coat - and made a run for it.

He collapsed onto the antique chair in front of the computer, his face red and breath heavy. The blonde turned around, tempted to drink the vial of what looked like pink lemonade on the nearest table. It did a number on his stomach when it turned a noxious black, even more so when thin, chalky strands of bone began floating to the surface. Whatever Wang was up to was probably for the good of the Spades, he told himself, and pretended that he didn't see it at all. 

Alfred clicked the flashdrive in place. A hologram of royal Club Sigil materialised in front of him. He rested his head on his knuckles as the soft drone of an automated voice rang in his head like the strike of a sledgehammer on steel. 

_authenticating, authenticating, authenticating -_

Whatever he was getting into, behind hundreds of layers of encryption, was beyond classified. It went without saying, but this was something he could never be fully prepared to face. The same went for everything he’d done so far. Not just in these tumultuous months with Arthur, but in facing the actions that he had taken over the course of twenty years. The most enjoyable years of one’s life were easily the most frivolous. It was a difficult realisation, that his life as a golden child in a castle were so treasured because it wasn’t spent looking into the hardships of someone else. Namely, what his big brother had been hiding behind those tired green eyes of his, always reflecting the plains surrounding the kingdom.

He traced the pixelated blue cursor around the loading bar. Only five minutes were remaining. That was enough time to stop the download, turn off the computer and leave as soon as possible. He could make up an explanation to Wang in the morning. Get a newer, less singed coat, whatever would work for him. Because it would work for Arthur too.

Alfred shook himself awake. No. Moping about the past was one thing, and overthinking was another. To be more precise, one of the worst things he could be doing at this moment in time. Alfred F. Jones, undeserving heir of the strongest Kingdom on the continent, had successfully threatened the feared King Ivan into keeping his archnemesis alive. He chuckled forcefully. The cracked, garbled laughter that came out made him sound as ill as Arthur himself. No one else was to hear this but him.

Heroes in the stories Arthur read to him were unrealistic. But so was not having yet vaporised, incinerated, decapitated by guards, or squashed beneath his boots like the maggot Alfred F. Jones, _undeserving heir of the strongest Kingdom on the continent_ , clearly was. Fate was something that he couldn’t easily place his trust in - after all, it governed the Timepiece. And yet, he knew this had to be some sign. Yes, this was nothing short of cocky. Yes, under-thinking was just as bad as overthinking. And yet, if Fate would scorn him and his brother no matter what he did, why should he choose to cower before it?


	5. Chapter 5

“Hey, hey. Arthur.”. The strawberry blonde woman leaned in closer with a cheshire-like grin. “Say, what kind of a Queen would you fancy now?”.

The Magical Imprint of the Diamonds, Kingdom of Wealth, was hidden stylishly on the underside of a scarlet satin cape. Her royal purple blouse sported a sheath of pure white frills at the sleeves. Arthur, on the other hand, was in a mismatched, green and brown-striped suit and tie. Surprisingly, for a King, it was the closest thing he had to what a regular citizen would wear on a day out, and at the same time what no sane person would ever wear in general.

“God, Francis. We’ve been over this so many times.”. The King of Spades pressed his hand to his forehead, furrowing all three layers of his eyebrows. It was getting harder and harder for the woman to stifle her laughter. “I don’t think I’ll be ready for another Queen for some time. I can handle my duties myself.”.

“Aww, don’t be like that.”. She feigned a pout. Resting her hands on the marble table, she gently lifted part of her hood to reveal the fresh, young face that his fellow King would never get used to. “Also, it’s François. We’ve been over this so many times.”. 

“If you want, dearest Arthur,”, she winked, “I would gladly take your hand in marriage - Ow, ow, ow, ow! ”.

“Oh shut up, you old pervert!”. The more unfashionable blonde man had pinched him hard on the cheek. “Anyway, isn’t using your Authority to give yourself that form an abuse of power?”.

“Hmm, but wouldn’t using it to turn lead into diamond be considered abuse as well? And yet, you and the other Kingdoms seem to be very happy with trading with us.”. Francis, King of Diamonds, stopped struggling against his old friend. It was subtle, but Arthur could tell that he was beginning to enjoy it. Shivering, he stopped immediately. Man or woman, Francis Bonnefoy would never change. 

“Our Royal Authorities are, by definition, an abuse of the material world.”. François winked. “Which means, you and the other Kings have to be nicer to me as well~”. 

“If the last five seconds wasn’t enough proof that I don’t have to be,”, Arthur smirked. “It would be my pleasure to give you a hefty reminder some other time.”.

“And mine too.”. François hadn’t seen his fellow King so alive in a long time. “Just not the face, yes?”. 

“Not the face, huh. In your male form, then?”. 

François flinched in an unladylike manner, before regaining her composure with a sigh.

“Ahh, that reminds me.”. The upbeat lilt of her voice was replaced with something more solemn. 

She removed the necklace resting on her chest. After making sure no one was looking, she flicked open the clasp. The bronze second hand could just be barely seen, staggering around the rusted clock face set deep into the weathered silver.

“I’m on ten minutes. Just thought you should know.”.

“...Ah, I see.”.

François could no longer see Arthur’s face. It was overwhelmed by the peak afternoon sun dazzling across the bejewelled rooftops lining the city streets. He picked at a leftover cherry tomato silently with the dessert fork, to which she frowned - until she caught a glimpse of his dry, quivering lips and dull eyes. 

“Arthur, it’s okay.”. She caressed his shoulder. Though she lowered her voice, it still brimmed with emotion as it always did.

“We as Kings live long lives. You’re the Great King Arthur, who’s going to live thousands of years more than me. I’m quite jealous, really. It’s fine if you don’t want to tell Big Brother, but relax a little -”.

“Francis.”. Arthur finally lifted his head. “How - how am I ‘great’?”.

The King of Spades spoke as a child would, honest and innocent. François almost spat out her mouthful of coffee. “Is that seriously a question?”, she leered at her friend, half-chuckling. “Or do you just want to subtly boost your ego? Oh, for the love of - fine. You’ve taken good care of your people in the First Century for a longer time than any other King. Sure, there was the big split into the Clubs and Spades with King Ivan and all that, but despite all the fashion crimes that I would have you executed for - ahem, that revolting suit of yours - “.

“That’s enough.”. Arthur sighed. “Well, that wasn’t actually what I meant, but I appreciate the effort even if it did the exact opposite towards the end.”. He said sternly. “Pick a fight with my suit, and you're picking a fight with my cavalry.". 

“Sure, whatever. Then, what exactly is your point?”.

“You see, Francis. I’ve definitely done all of that in my prime years. People praise me - people praise us Kings, that is, for looking after them over these thousands of years.”. Slowly, he revealed his own timepiece. François cupped the pocket watch in her hands, holding a velvet gloved hand to her mouth as soon as she saw the time. 

“Three minutes.”. Arthur declared to both the woman and himself. He laughed nervously. "If only time passed regularly on this damned piece of scrap metal like the clock it's supposed to be, then I wouldn't be so worried. My Kingdom and I have come a long way - but every time I look at the Timepiece, it feels like I haven't done anything at all.".

“I…”. He closed his eyes. “I used to grieve for nights after the death of a friend. A thousand years later, it became hours - now, with Elizabeth's passing, I was too busy to even bat an eye even though I loved her just as much as the others. Now it's my turn, Francis. And to think that after standing right next to Death for so long, I still haven't gotten used to it.".

“Oh, my dear Arthur.”. François shook her head, her awkward half-smile bearing the weight of heavy thoughts. “But can any of us ever get used to death? Whether you choose to see it as a natural phenomenon or the cruel whims of Fate, death would lose meaning the moment it becomes something to be expected. Something to truly live comfortably with, alongside its grasp on us all.” 

She smirked. Arthur remained at a loss for words; it was no surprise that the King of Diamonds, for the frog he was, had quite a way with them. “I know you think you’ve seen it all as our oldest King, but don’t flatter yourself yet - you’re still human. ”.

“I’m still human, huh.”. The King of Spades chuckled. “The last time I heard that was when I was too tired to till the land in our first village.”.

“Relatable.”. The other nodded. “And you know what else is?”.

“What?”.

“The desire to hold someone in your arms, feeling your body and mind becoming one with theirs…”. François swooned. She stood up, swinging her thigh-high armoured boot onto her wooden seat. Arthur lifted his collar to his face. Too many heads were turned, but the waiters didn’t bat an eye; she was probably a regular.

“Let’s go find you a suitor!”.

“Oh, piss off, Francis!”. 

Arthur tried not to gag while reaching for the bill. That usually marked the beginning and end of their secret meetings as civilians; some notion of disgust, confusion and the occasional unwanted sexual tension. But in between, blending seamlessly with the frivolous jokes and innuendos were slivers of advice that he was not impervious to as King. 

And as he left the Kingdom of Diamonds for the bowels of his castle grounds, he realised that he never once listened to Francis when it mattered most.

Short-lived specks of flame took flight from the golden candelabra in his hand. They trailed the walls, brick-lined from all sides and seeded with mold. The faces of old portraits glowed with the light they hadn't seen for decades. Arthur had always thought of renovating the Old Halls to suit the new castle's needs. The crumbling foundations of the palace grounds were sandwiched tightly over one another with the passing of time. 

But removing something directly meant that it no longer served a purpose; when it was his time, the next King would rise and he would be buried within the fine, polished towers that were just finished yesterday. The Old Halls had a reason to be kept, specific to no one but him.

It was a selfish way to keep himself in check. The smell of rot from tendrils of black mildew, brushing at his floor length cloak in an attempt to strip him of his divinity. They merged with the rusted painting frames and became the thousand branched arms of nobles long gone. Their eyes, yellowed and pleading, begged him to stay for a little bit longer. Because soon, he would be joining them anyway. 

The King of Spades gagged when he looked into what was left of a standing mirror, overcome with the same oozing black ichor on the walls. It was different from his sardonic banter with Francis. He lurched forward. The meal he had with the King of Diamonds joined the fuzzy pile of mildew clinging to his boots.

The blotchy, sepia-coloured glass sickened his reflection's skin. Only now did he realise how pale he was and how little he ate to begin with. Did the mirror reduce himself to the corpse he knew he would be? 

He wiped his mouth with his hand. 

"Despite being up to my knees in mold, I can still tell it's you. You reek.". 

Arthur looked up. It was Ivan.

Penetrating the darkness was the slow and steady glare of white light seeping in from two automatic sliding doors, marking out the edges of the King of Clubs' white lab coat. A completely different building was attached to the decomposing Old Halls, one that was impeccably clean and stretched further than Arthur could see. Looking at the ground, the black ichor had ceased to exist within one metre of the entrance, right where his rival's shoes stood.

The King of Clubs turned away. "I came to see Alfred. Nothing else.".

"So be it.". Ivan smiled and led Arthur into the research centre he commissioned.

He stopped at a small glass vat near the entrance of and poured him a glass of water in a small cup. Arthur handled it curiously. It crinkled softly like muted firecrackers as he dented the cup with his fingers, and sprang back into its original shape when he immediately removed them. Ivan had somehow managed to weave porcelain into cloth - 'Plastic', was what they called it.

"We have many more, so if you could kindly dispose of it properly after you've finished, my team would appreciate that. Come, we have much to discuss.". 

As expected of Ivan, the laboratory was flushed in hues of green, save for the grey corrugated roofing typical of modern Club warehouses. Green steel-plated walls, lumbering dark green machines, and even pale green solutions to match green and white marbled benches. Men and women in the same pure white cloaks swirled them in their flasks, added more chemicals, drank them and boiled them over a small barrel with a single protruding green flame. Oscillating between printed manuals and their experiments, the Royal Scientists of the Club Kingdom could only do as they were told. 

Arthur hastily closed his eyes and imagined everything he had seen today with a colour other than green. Even the mildew gave him a momentary sense of comfort. Both the Clubs' technology and sense of colour were far too advanced to be comprehensible to him. 

They stopped at a large, cylindrical chamber laid horizontally on the ground. Wires of all colours dove in and out of the double-layered chrome steel walls, attaching themselves to a crowd of silent machines. Some were short, huddled around the base of the chamber, while others towered over them and watched from a distance. Then there were those filled with mysterious, boiling liquids alongside the fanned tubing of ventilators. They all flickered red, yellow and blue every now and then, whispering in harsh dial tones about the creature inside. 

Arthur's face softened as he peered into the glass covering on the chamber's top half. Its intimidating exterior withheld a white, cushion-lined bed. The little boy was still there. In a plain white frock easily mistaken for a burial sheet, trapped in a dream he would be freed from soon. There was a bunch of strawberry blonde hair at his hairline that would never stay down. It was irritating at first, but the King of Spades found it amusing to think that he was born with it. 

He looked closer, and there it was. A tiny spade mark on the back of his left hand. Within its pale blue borders were the same fractals on his own, every angle of every twist and turn duplicated immaculately on his soft, pale skin.

"You've decided to name him Alfred, I see.". Ivan took a few steps over to Arthur's side. "Why so?".

"Alfred is a name that demonstrates power.". England smiled to himself, placing his hand on the glass. "That's why I chose it.".

"Let me rephrase that. Why did you name him?".

"What?".

"Ahh,". Ivan rubbed his temples. "To think that I am the only one to remember why I have intruded into your Kingdom.". 

The boy yawned, tossing and turning until he found a comfortable spot on his side. 

"I shall kindly reiterate that this boy,".

Arthur fell silent. knowing that it was time to bear the brunt of his own decisions.

"Is you.".

Ivan continued as if he were talking to a wall. "The Magical Imprint of a noble is connected to their soul. To merely state the facts, Arthur Kirkland, your Magical Imprint was isolated using Club technology - my technology - to create this specimen.". 

"We've settled this before, Ivan." The King of Spades stared into his plastic cup of water. He narrowed his eyebrows. "I plan on raising him as my own, and that's final.".

As Ivan exhaled, the corners of his lips stretched like the mildew in the hallway, forming a wicked grin. 

Ivan exhaled. The corners of his lips stretched to their limits and spread across his cheeks like the mildew in the hallway. Slow, demented laughter broke out from his wicked grin and infected the pristine silence of the sterilised laboratory.

Everyone within a ten metre radius reluctantly turned their heads to gaze at the disruption. It was nothing new that his expression was calm in all aspects save for his tone. And then, there it was. The high-pitched, grating jeer of a hyena in human form, rising in a quick, calculated crescendo. Eventually, the most insane man on the continent would have come to believe that this King, leader of a rising Empire at the forefront of the continent, was completely and utterly mad.

"AHAHA!". 

But he wasn't. He was just a little too well entertained. Arthur trembled, his Magical Imprint glowing in reflex. He quickly put his right hand in his pocket. 

"You want to raise him as your own.". Ivan struggled to breathe. Several staff members had already begun fleeing the premises in fear of their lives. He let them go out of wanting to savour this moment for himself, and himself alone.

"A child running about the halls of your palace, playing, hoping and dreaming in the years he lives out on borrowed time.". 

"And while the kingdom knows him to be my brother,", Arthur could feel his Royal Authority surging through his right arm, threatening to break loose at any moment.  
He gritted his teeth. "I assure you, I will treasure him as if he were my son.".

"You may be in charge of this - ". The signs of guilt that Ivan wanted to see overcame Arthur's prideful stance. As the King of Clubs thought, he couldn't bring it upon himself to describe the boy as what he was - an experiment. "This… venture, Ivan, but you have no control over what happens after it.". 

"Trying to sound noble, are you?". Ivan scoffed and gestured to the chamber. 

"In the end, whatever love that child feels for you is futile. Whatever you feel for him is futile. When we extract your soul through your Imprint and place into his body once he becomes King, you might as well have admitted you never loved him to begin with. How cruel of you, King of Spades - ".

"Yes, Ivan.". 

Caught off guard by the King of Spades agreeing with him to his detriment, Ivan couldn't help letting himself be interrupted. 

The spike of Royal Authority that ate away at half of Arthur’s body died down in an instant. There was no point in preparing to attack Ivan. Though his sense of morality had been set askew by thousands of years of existence, Arthur knew his real adversary in this matter was staring right back at him in the reflection of the glass.

"I'll admit that what I'm doing is cruel, for both your sake and mine. I know your intentions were never to aid me. Even a fool could see that. Your lucrative scientific knowledge, all of these inventions, they build towards my downfall as a King. And to some extent, you find it fun.". 

The other King was still smiling. That grin of his feigned the same warmth it had during their first clashes in court, and even the battleground. It was a dying star, projecting its last shreds of the same light into the future as it did for thousands of years. Arthur failed to notice its collapse into a black hole, and how he had long since been drawn in without realising it.

"That's why I would like to remind you.". The blonde began slowly pacing around the chamber. "Not just as a King, but as your friend of a good, say, couple of years.".

"Friend.". Ivan toyed with the expression. There was no contempt, no affirmation. He simply repeated it to himself, wondering if those were the only responses he could ever give. 

"We lead lives of gods, playing the long game of gathering wealth, leading armies, nurturing people that will never see anything beyond our regalia. But our days are numbered. We may live long, but our hearts being able to stop any moment is more proof than ever that we are still people, and that the Timepiece is little more than an accessory.".

Ivan blinked. Arthur's steely determination began to come apart at the seams, barely held together by how absorbed he was in his own argument. He bit his lip, covering his mouth to hide it. His rhetoric was nothing more than an arrow bouncing off a shield. 

"Have you forgotten your lines?". The shield awaited a response. "Or perhaps you have stage fright? Well, I understand, with me being the only member of your audience - ". 

"So I forgive you, Ivan.".

His taunting led Arthur straight to a chink in its impenetrable plating.

"For having delighted in my misery for all these years, I forgive you.".

Ivan lacked the usual vigor present in his banter with the other. While still refusing to back down, he was clearly preoccupied with his own doubts to the point of exposing a shred of weakness. For him, this was just one consequence of being open with disappointment and boredom, the variant of these emotions that weren't just for show in the tomfoolery of politics. 

"I would hate to burst your bubble of delusions, but I never apologised for that.".

"My point exactly.". Arthur sighed. "Because if we were truly gods like the Timepiece intended for us to be, neither of us would have a need for that." 

Without the adrenaline rush of bearing hatred against his worst enemy, there were only tenuous feelings of discomfort. There was also overwhelming embarrassment and shame that made him sick to his stomach, but rather than being disgusted at what the world had done to his pride, Arthur decided to direct it at his own actions.

"In a way, what I mean to say is - I seek your forgiveness, too. Because I know I won't be able to forgive myself for creating something to love as a person, rather than a King.".

He could see through Ivan's crystal glass face and tell that he was no less fatigued than he was. They looked towards and away from each other intermittently, accompanied only by the silently onlooking machines. 

It took thousands of years for the both of them to understand the paradox of petty rivalries. The times they had spent arguing for the sake of doing so were genuinely infuriating, and at the same time, infuriatingly genuine. Bombarding sanctions in public, insults in private, and an arsenal of Royal Authority that could decimate entire villages at each other was something that gave them reason beyond the throne. An invaluable part of their lives that, when acknowledged, would defeat the purpose of neither considering the other valuable; the very foundation of their scathing relationship.

But even royalty could succumb to human temptation. The further they invested themselves in that hatred, the deeper they could wound the other. It was all too enticing to throw out harsher words, create deadlier weapons, build bigger economies. There was always more to be done to keep the flame alive and perpetuate the cycle of simple, unconditional hatred. They weren't bothered by the flame's potential to consume them, or what was at stake. What both Kings were afraid of all this time was having only two things to look at when it burned out. Each other, and the lingering darkness that they had condemned themselves to by thinking the flame was the only thing that mattered.

Because in the end, there was always a point in conflict between two people where nothing new would be expected. When all was said and done, there was no reason to fight and no reason to become friends. The King of Clubs and Spades could only feel their residual doubts, regrets and disappointments, all of which made them feel inexplicably, uncomfortably sore around each other. That was, in its essence, what true, undeserved hatred for another person really was.

The only noise after a minute or two was the disconnecting of a switch. It made Arthur jolt slightly. He turned to find the source, at first cautiously, then alarmingly. 

It seemed that to everything they had learned, Ivan decided to put his head in the sand. 

"Whoops.". 

The cord to the chamber's life support dangled in his hands. 

"Y- You monster!". Arthur exclaimed. "You - why would you - ".

"Just kidding.".

Echoing like a soft drumbeat through the open glass through the chamber, were a series of fast, light breaths. The boy opened his mouth like a fish out of water to taste the warm, dry air. Gagging at the unusual taste, tears were brought to his eyes. So were they brought to Arthur's; tears to both rejoice and mourn. In the cloudy periphery of his vision he watched Ivan walk away solemnly. Though he unable to laugh or cry, the King of Clubs was just barely managing a straight face.


End file.
